


These Days of Darkness

by sendal



Series: I Will Wait for You [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Clint Barton, Sandra writes fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha Phil's first time supervising a field op goes awry with the discovery of an Omega prisoner in heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days of Darkness

Phil Coulson's comm clicked. "Sir, this is Thomas. We have a problem on Level 3 that requires your attention."

Fourteen minutes had passed since they'd secured this Hydra bunker on the outskirts of Nowhere, Kansas. Coulson hadn't made the mistake of congratulating himself too soon, but provisionally he was very satisfied. Mission objectives achieved. No casualties. Coulson's first trip into the field as agent in charge would be noted as a success and Director Fury himself might give an approving nod if they passed in the hallway. Agent Thomas's problem was probably just a minor bump on the road.

But the bump was an injured Omega, teeth bared at them as he crouched defensively in the corner of a detention cell.

The entire bunker was an old American military base, designed with all the grace and charm of the Cold War – concrete floors, caged ceiling lights, subterranean cold seeping in from all sides. The Omega, fair-skinned and dark blond, was wearing brown trousers but no shirt or shoes. His bare right ankle was swollen under the wrap of an elastic bandage. His torso and arms were dirty and bruised, and dried blood stained his chin. 

Worse than all that, the cell reeked of the Omega's blossoming heat. A delicious, amazing reek that went straight to the base of Coulson's brain.

"My goodness," was all he could think to say, because he was very sure none of his training had covered this scenario. His mother's rule: when in doubt, default to polite blandness.

Thomas was a junior agent with a strong resemblance to Halle Berry, though she was known to punch people who remarked on her good looks. She was also a Beta, which meant the Omega's smell wouldn't affect her. She stood beside Coulson in the doorway, one hand on her holstered gun.

"He won't give us his name," Thomas said. "We're questioning the Hydra prisoners."

"Question harder," Coulson suggested. 

She left them alone. Coulson tried to project calmness and serenity toward the prisoner.

"We're not going to hurt you," he said. "We're the good guys."

The Omega snorted. "Sure you are."

Despite the bravado, the Omega's voice shook. With hunger, or cold, or exhaustion, or pain. Or the heat, maybe. He was too far gone for suppressants at this point. But if he was lucky, the doctors could sedate him through the worst of it. He appeared to be a few years younger than Coulson. Full of raging hormones that demanded an outlet.

Coulson asked, "Do you want some coffee?"

The Omega glared at him. "Poisoned? No thanks."

"If I wanted you dead, I'd just shoot you," Coulson radioed one of his other agents and asked them to bring his Thermos from their vehicle. While they waited, he crouched down to the Omega's level but didn't try to draw nearer. He also kept the path to the door clear. "My name is Phil. I was sent here to shut down this place."

The Omega considered that. "Sent by who?" 

"I'm not authorized to tell you. Maybe you could tell me why you're here."

"I'm not authorized," the Omega shot back. He tightened his folded arms as a severe tremor ran through him. Coulson fought every instinct that told him to rush forward and ease the man's pain. 

"You're in heat," Coulson said mildly.

"No shit. Hands off."

Some Alphas might have taken offense, but Coulson admired the defiance. "I won't touch you without your permission."

"You won't get it," the Omega said. He trembled again, and thudded his head on the wall behind him. Coulson winced.

"The people holding you here are generally not considered good people," Coulson said. "They're also not in the habit of kidnapping random strangers. There must be a reason they were interested in you."

"I'm very good looking," the Omega bit out. 

Defiant and egotistical. But not delusional. Under the grime, he was definitely handsome. Hydra was not above getting involved in human trafficking, but usually not in the United States. Coulson considered the possibility that the man had been sexually assaulted by his captors. He wanted to punch someone.

"Do you have any injuries that need immediate medical attention?" he asked.

"You want to play doctor, Phil?" the Omega asked derisively.

Approaching footsteps warned them of Agent Chang's arrival with the black Thermos. Coulson had forgotten that Chang was an Alpha. He took one look at the prisoner and squared his shoulders aggressively.

Coulson rose swiftly. "You're dismissed, Agent."

"Sir," Chang said, eyes on the Omega. "He needs it."

The prisoner hissed. 

"Dismissed," Coulson repeated, firmly. Silently he weighed the odds that Chang would go for the Omega anyway. SHIELD agents were supposed to be better than that. Smarter. More disciplined. This wasn't a lurid melodrama on TV or the pages of a romance book. If Alphas couldn't overcome their instincts in the field, they needed to be shunted to desk positions. Mission objectives required a higher priority than pheromones.

Two heartbeats. Three. Coulson was imagining his report to Fury: I had to tackle our own agent to protect the Omega prisoner.

But Chang's common sense prevailed. His left foot slid backward, and he spun away with a flash of frustration.

Coulson didn't glance at the Omega, even though he could feel the man's eyes on him. Carefully he poured the coffee and took a sip. Still hot. Dark roast with a dash of hazelnut syrup. Lovely. He put the cap and cup back on and gave the Omega his best measured look.

"I'm going to put this on the floor in front of you," he said. "I'm not going to touch you or try anything funny. You could probably use something hot." 

The Omega said nothing. He watched with wide eyes and more trembling as Coulson took a few steps forward, left the coffee near him, and then retreated.

"I'll wait outside," Coulson said. "Yell if you need anything."

It took more discipline than he'd anticipated to walk away and leave the Omega alone in the cell. But the several feet of distance cleared his head a little. He'd never considered himself susceptible to hormones to the exclusion of reason, but at the moment he seemed almost as bad as Chang. He sucked in some air, wiped his brow, and turned as Thomas came down the stairs.

She showed him some notes she'd jotted in a small notebook. "Most of them aren't talkative, but the medic's a loudmouth."

Coulson scanned the page. "Nicknamed Hawkeye. Taken eight days ago from Topeka. But why?"

"It was on the orders of one of their senior agents. He was supposed to arrive yesterday but didn't show." Thomas took a close look at Coulson. "What are we going to do with him?"

"S.O.P. #27."

Thomas glanced past Coulson's shoulder. Coulson turned to see the Omega standing in the doorway, steadying himself on his one good foot. Upright, he looked broad and finely muscled. Too skinny, thanks to the imprisonment, but at his fighting weight he'd no doubt be a formidable opponent.

"What's S.O.P. #27?" the Omega asked unsteadily.

Coulson said, "Medical attention, debriefing, and return to your normal life."

The Omega said sharply, "I don't need medical attention – " but his eyes rolled up and he fell.

Coulson caught him. At the first brush of hot skin he felt a surge of possessiveness and claiming – mine, all mine – that was so powerful he almost staggered. He shunted it aside with ruthless precision. Claiming instincts were the ridiculous remnants of evolution and genetics. Coulson did not want a partner. He didn't need a partner. If he ever did take on a bond, it would be with someone who had the right background, education, and political connections, and both sides would agree to an advantageous union. 

Under no circumstances was he going to knot a damaged stranger in the middle of a Hydra base while supervising his first field mission. Back at headquarters they'd have a field day with the gossip: Coulson can't keep it in his pants, Coulson fucked a stranger while his team watched, Coulson's a selfish bastard Alpha like the rest of them.

But the sheer thrill of his hands on the Omega's bare torso made him flush with desire. Coulson wanted to lift him up and carry him to somewhere safe, soft and secluded, and fuck him until they both unraveled into tiny bits of senselessness.

With immense effort Coulson settled for lowering Hawkeye to the floor and taking his hands away. They shook, but he couldn't do anything about physiology at this point.

"Let's get a medevac chopper in here," he said to Thomas.

"About that, sir," she said, and there it was: bump number two.

#

Bump number three came several minutes later from the Hydra medic. He was a short, wiry Beta with an ugly attitude.

"He's allergic to heat sedation. Had an alert bracelet. One shot and he'll stop breathing." The medic's mouth quirked up. "You want me to bring him around, or are you going to take him while he's out?"

It took an extra second or two for Phil to process that statement, just because of its sheer audacity. He punched the medic in the jaw and had Thomas take him back to lock down. 

On the narrow exam table, Hawkeye didn't move under the gray wool blanket that Coulson had spread on him. He was trembling and feverish and fully erect, his cock a long hard line under his trousers. The bruises and ankle seemed to be his only injuries.

But he smelled so fucking desirable that Coulson was getting dizzy. He backed away and got on his radio. "Someone give me the weather report."

"No-fly alert still in effect, sir." That was Chang. "All craft grounded. Reports of a touchdown five miles north of us." 

Summertime in Tornado Alley. Just Coulson's luck. The way his night was going, a twister would carry off their vehicle and support equipment. 

Thomas returned. "Sir, maybe you should leave the prisoner to me until we can evacuate."

Coulson drank more coffee. "Are you going to be the one to knot him, Agent?"

Her expression flickered. "That's not funny, sir."

"I'm not joking. He's in heat and already weak. If we let it proceed unattended, he's at high risk for stroke, brain damage, and death." Coulson kept his voice calm, no matter how much his stomach twisted at what the logical solution was. "I don't see many options."

Thomas said, "Chang would do it."

"Chang would," Coulson agreed. "Our guest might not be amenable to him, though."

"I'm not sure he qualifies as a guest."

"He's our responsibility, Thomas. Hydra has in interest in him, so we do, too. That interest is best served if we treat him with the respect he deserves."

"You don't have to tell me about Omega rights, sir," she snapped. "My sister's an Omega. But you don't have to compromise yourself. There are other options."

If she meant sex toys, he'd already looked. 

Coulson gave her the Thermos. "If I go off comms for more than an hour, check on us yourself. No one else. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." 

"And the very minute there's a safe window for flight, I want that chopper on its way."

"I understand." She hesitated. "Good luck."

When she was gone, Coulson closed the door. Didn’t lock it, because he trusted his people. The infirmary was nothing more than three crates of medical supplies and blankets, two exam tables, and portable lab and X-ray equipment stacked next to a sink. Coulson stripped the thin mattress from the second table, spread it on the floor, and unfolded several blankets. It wasn't easy, lifting Hawkeye again, but he got him settled into the makeshift pile and dragged down the second mattress as well. He found smelling salts in the supplies and broke open a capsule.

The ammonia fumes brought the younger man around within seconds. He blinked up at Coulson, disoriented, and then scrambled backward. Coulson had foreseen that, and positioned the mattresses in the corner. Hawkeye got no further two feet, his chest heaving with panic, both fists raised and clenched.

"I'm only here to help," Coulson said. "Do you understand? I'm not doing anything you don't want me to do."

Hawkeye gasped out, "You're an Alpha."

"I'm an Alpha, but I'm not a mindless animal," Coulson insisted. "If I say I want to help, I want to help. You're in charge."

Hawkeye's skepticism was clear. "Omegas are never in charge."

They'd get nowhere if he couldn't overcome Hawkeye's mistrust. "If I wanted you under me, I could have done that while you were out," Coulson pointed out. He tried not to let the image take root in his brain but it was getting ridiculously difficult to separate his professionalism from his instincts. "I've done nothing to make you doubt me since we met, and that's not going to change."

Minutes passed in silence while Hawkeye struggled with his decisions. Coulson drew on the vast well of patience that had seen him through Army training and endless SHIELD intelligence briefings. SHIELD trusted him not to fuck this up. Fury trusted him. Couldn't this Omega, too?

Gradually Hawkeye's fists lowered and he shifted off his bad ankle. "I have to lie down," he said, voice quavering. He curled up on the mattress with his arms crossed tightly, his chin tucked into his chest. "Do whatever you want."

It was a concession, but not enough. Not for this. Nevertheless, Coulson went with the moment. He tucked the blankets around Hawkeye and asked, "If I get you some water, will you drink it? You must be thirsty."

A tiny nod. Or maybe that was a tremor. Coulson got the water anyway, along with a warm washcloth. Hawkeye lifted his head to drink and Coulson slipped his hand behind it for support. Hawkeye flinched, but didn't lash out, and managed a few sips before he sank back down. 

"I'm going to clean off the grime on your face," Coulson said, holding the cloth up for inspection.

Hawkeye tucked his head more. "Not pretty enough?"

"You'll feel better cleaned up," Coulson said. Technically true, but he also wanted Hawkeye to get accustomed to his touch, to letting him past some pretty serious barriers. If he didn't relax, any attempt at knotting would end in serious injury. Cleaning him was also a way to buy time for the skies to clear. Coulson was owed a meteorological miracle or two.

Cement walls kept the place quiet. If any of Coulson's people were outside the door, he couldn't hear them. Carefully he cleaned Hawkeye's face with the cloth. Hawkeye's breathing slowed down, and the tremors eased a little.

"Your name is Phil," Hawkeye managed.

"Yes. What's your real name?"

Hawkeye didn't answer that. Instead he asked, "How old are you?"

"Thirty. You?"

Again no direct answer. Instead, Hawkeye said, "You work for the government."

"A division of it," Coulson agreed. "My favorite color is periwinkle, and I like long walks on the beach at sunset."

A snicker of laughter. It was good to know there was a sense of humor still flickering under that fear and desperation.

"Give me some limits here," Coulson said. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't need anything from you." Fiercely said, but Hawkeye wouldn’t meet his gaze. "I can get through it on my own."

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But you're injured and under too much stress. They'll blame me if you die and frankly, the paperwork is appalling."

Hawkeye snorted. "I'm not sympathetic."

"But I am. I'm going to lie down right here, okay? Not touching you unless you say it's okay."

He curled up on the mattress just a few inches away and practiced looking as non-threatening as possible. The cold was more noticeable down here, so he pulled a blanket over himself as well.

Hawkeye shuddered. "I don't fuck with strangers."

"I'm not a stranger. You know my first name, my job, and my favorite color." Coulson resisted the urge to stroke Hawkeye's shoulder. "I can provide health screening documentation. I have no sexually transmitted diseases. My goal is to get you through this until we can evacuate and find a better solution."

"Or you could let me die."

"Paperwork," Coulson reminded him. "Can I hold your hand?"

"My hand or my cock?"

"I thought we'd start small." And he didn't mean that as a joke, but it brought another snicker.

"Sure." Hawkeye closed his eyes. "Hold my small hand."

The spirit might be willing but Hawkeye's fist didn't want to unclench. Coulson patiently worked their fingers together. The contact eased some of the constriction in Coulson's chest. It felt right in a way that had long eluded him. It felt comfortable and electric and full of promise.

Jesus. A man could get used to this, might let it into his heart and life, might readjust his whole worldview if it meant coming home to something like this every night. 

Coulson was in a slew of trouble if he didn't catch himself fast.

Hawkeye blinked his eyes open in a way that strongly suggested he felt something, too, despite his pain and exhaustion. He stared blearily at Coulson.

"Cock next," he whispered.

Coulson didn't have any lubricant, so he licked his palm and slid his hand under Hawkeye's waistband. Hawkeye arched at the touch and made a sound deep in his throat. Coulson wrapped his fingers around the hardness and stroked it. 

"That's okay," Hawkeye muttered.

"You want me to take care of this?" Coulson asked unsteadily.

"Fuck yes."

A few more strokes, and Hawkeye came with a stifled cry and powerful shudders. He turned his head into the blankets, flushed and gasping, and Coulson sensed he was embarrassed. Which was fucking ridiculous. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Or maybe he was just repulsed by Coulson himself, the Alpha who'd taken advantage of this situation for his own benefit. 

Coulson rolled upright, ignoring his own thick erection, and sat a few feet away until Hawkeye's breathing slowed down to normal. Hawkeye peeked out at him, his lashes thick and eyes wet.

"Your turn," he said, his voice wrecked.

"Wasn't enough?" Coulson asked carefully.

"Not nearly."

Because Hawkeye was young, and the heat was in full throes, and a simple hand job wasn't going to be enough to satisfy the fire burning in his veins. To be honest, it wasn't going to satisfy Coulson's, either. He was throbbing under his pants, and his skin itched all over, and his brain was going to explode if he didn't roll Hawkeye over, grip him by the waist, and take him for all his worth. 

Never before in his life had Coulson had qualms about Alpha-Omega biology. Evolution was a fact of life, and the homo tria race had succeeded in surviving when all other species of early man had died off. But everything about this felt just as wrong as it felt right; he was torn between the satisfaction a knot would bring and the uncomfortable suspicion this was rape, not union. 

Hawkeye was watching him with an expression that flickered between need and lust to vulnerability and anger. His cheeks were flushed, and the tremors were returning. Coulson calculated how many minutes had passed, and what the chances were that a helicopter would be able to medevac them before Hawkeye suffered irreversible damage.

"Drink more water," he said, holding the cup up. 

Hawkeye managed a few sips before shaking his head. "I'll throw up," he admitted.

Coulson touched the side of his head. No flinch, which might have been a good sign if it wasn't clear that Hawkeye was exhausted. His scalp was hot beneath the short bristles of his hair. Coulson said, "Tell me what to do next." 

"I don't . . . " Hawkeye trailed off uncertainly as a full-body tremor took him. When he could talk again, his voice was noticeable weaker. "Just take it."

They had no choice. Coulson maneuvered behind him under the blankets, slid down his and Hawkeye's clothes, and felt for the hot slick opening. He murmured nonsense into Hawkeye's neck as he slid in and took root. Pleasure spiraled him away into a haze of light and smell but he anchored himself with one hand on Hawkeye's hip and his nose buried to his shoulder. Hawkeye shuddered underneath him and drove backwards and said, "Harder, fuck you, harder," and then Coulson's knot swelled up and drove Hawkeye to whimpers and then silence.

Both of them stilled, but every nerve in Coulson's body was inflamed with Hawkeye's presence: not just his smell, but the tiny hairs along his neck, the curve of his ear, the delicious feel of his bare skin, the way he was tight and hot and clenched around Coulson even though he'd obviously passed out. 

The ear bud in Coulson's ear clicked. He'd forgotten to rip out the damn comm.

"Choppers are on their way, sir," Thomas said crisply. "ETA is thirteen minutes."

Coulson deliberately thumped his head against the concrete wall behind him. The pain brought him some clarity, but he was going to have to work a lot harder than that to get his knot down before the medics barged in. He cupped Hawkeye's head, felt the steady pulse in his neck, and hoped that the Omega forgive him some day. Not that they were likely to meet again. From this point on, their paths would diverge into the great wide world where millions of other Alphas and Omegas waited with keen and passionate gazes. 

The awareness that he'd never knot Hawkeye again – never touch this warm skin, never smell the spice of him or hear his sarcasm - brought a different kind of pain, but Phil Coulson had mapped out his life and there was no room for uncharted territories. He reminded himself that duty and career came first. Always. 

"We'll be ready," Coulson told Thomas. He gave one small, regretful kiss to the back of Hawkeye's neck and started to pull himself back together. 

end

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter and series title from Mumford and Sons. Thanks for reading! Any feedback greatly appreciated.


End file.
